And the words spew, each keyboard click
crafting another shoddy speck of line.
I attempt to ignore the prospect of
an untested audience, musings so simple,
uncluttered.
Laughing teeth and arching eyebrows
mock me, and I imagine the Spacek stare,
far more memorable than the color dripping from her hair.
Those bulging eyes. Pupils flash their
death glare,
and with a happy sigh, I lean back from my labors to
wait peacefully for the onslaught to begin, envisioning
chaise lounge, martini in hand, fluffy pink slippers to
hide manicured toes, a knowing smile, and
pale blush robe that matches the dress
frozen on a remembered stage.
Ah! Carrie (1976)... it's a classic. To be honest, I've never been a huge fan of Stephen King, most likely because I grew up just a short drive from his home in Maine. We were force fed King on a regular basis. At any rate, who could dislike Carrie? The movie brings back instant nostalgia even for those, like myself, who were born long after its release.
It is not simply a horror classic but a film classic that crossed over to "normal" audiences. My parents saw it in the theater when they were 18 years old, and they have never been horror fans (perhaps that is one of the reasons I latched onto the genre so young).
The poem is not about the movie so much as that face-- the Spacek stare. The "I can murder you with this look" face that is burned in the memory of everyone who has ever watched the film. I decided to take part in a short story workshop and was thoroughly out of place among people whose creative processes were neat and tidy. Shared brainstorming sessions spawned this piece or, more specifically, the line, "They're all going to laugh at you!"
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